


Home Alone

by orphan_account



Series: unrelated tumblr shorts [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabbles, M/M, Tumblr Prompts, it has nothing to do with the movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 16:10:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13838352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: a tumblr prompt from the lovely sherlocked-for-a-lifetimeWhat is your OTP and What would your OTP do on a date (12.) at Home alone?failed dates, apparently. working out the entirety of a relationship, apparently.-James Moriarty is sliding off the sofa, facedown, and beginning to pool into a puddle on the floor. It is a slow and viscous type of movement that reminds Mycroft of the concept of drool.Drool??!his mind supplies helpfully. The sofa was very expensive.He is thinking about clearing his throat or otherwise announcing that, yes, he is, in fact, present in his own home, when Moriarty suddenly raises his head a fraction, just enough so he can manage to yell out “Iceman!!” in a very annoyed tone of voice.“We never gooutanymore,” he whines spectacularly, before Mycroft can respond.





	Home Alone

James Moriarty is sliding off the sofa, facedown, and beginning to pool into a puddle on the floor. It is a slow and viscous type of movement that reminds Mycroft of the concept of drool.  _Drool??!_  his mind supplies helpfully. The sofa was very expensive.

He is thinking about clearing his throat or otherwise announcing that, yes, he is, in fact, present in his own home, when Moriarty suddenly raises his head a fraction, just enough so he can manage to yell out “Iceman!!” in a very annoyed tone of voice.

“We never go  _out_ anymore,” he whines spectacularly, before Mycroft can respond.

Instead, then, Mycroft does a quick check of the room and front door. No signs of forced entry, and the security system is completely in tact. Moriarty got in with a key then. Ah, well, human error was always the biggest design flaw when it came to security. At least that means he won’t have to have any repairs made.

“It’s like the romance is  _dead_ and we’ve hardly even  _began!_ ” Moriarty groans from the couch,  punctuating the line with a fist against the floor.

Mycroft debates the safety implications of approaching, then decides it should be okay.

“Look at me, please,” Mycroft requests of Moriarty, standing just a few steps from the sofa.

Moriarty cranes his neck back and face up with much difficulty.

Pupils normal (for him anyway), breathing normal, blood vessels normal. No sign of intoxication or mind-altering substances. Moriarty sees what he’s doing a second later and scowls, burying his face again.

“Right,” Mycroft says. “I’ll put the kettle on then.”

Moriarty groans theatrically again, and Mycroft disappears into the kitchen.

The last time he saw Moriarty they had met up at a conference, trading information as they infrequently, but regularly did.

_“You wanna hang out sometimes?” Moriarty asked, smacking his gum, before nodding toward the undercover bodyguards around the room. “We can leave the kids with their toys at home. Just you, me, maybe a museum heist. Picnic in the Louvre?”_

_“I’ll have to politely decline,” Mycroft had responded._

There were unspoken rules to the trades. The information had to be accurate, though it could also be as encrypted or obscured as they wanted. And it was always a trade out of mutual need.

Except then two weeks after the conference Mycroft gets an email about an assassination, and Moriarty asks for nothing but signs the letter with a  _You owe me a date._

And now he is potentially drooling into the sofa.

When Mycroft re-emerges from the kitchen, he sees that Moriarty has managed to pull himself upright and is sitting, legs crossed, buffing his nails. Really?

Mycroft drinks from his cup and observes. Moriarty gives him a sour look.

“None for me?” he asks.

“You’re not a guest,” Mycroft retorts.

Moriarty looks dramatically offended. Mycroft nods toward the kitchen.

“On the counter,” he says.

Moriarty’s expression is unreadable as he gets up and stalks into the kitchen, never once breaking eye-contact. Very disturbing.

They drink their tea in complete silence. Peaceful, albeit slightly aggressive, silence. Then Moriarty leaves without so much as a goodbye.

What the bloody hell.

.

“Sometimes,” Moriarty yells, throwing his arms up as he paces the room, “I think you care about that sofa more than you care about me!”

“Of course I do,” Mycroft replies, sounding a bit scandalized. “I paid a lot of good money for that sofa. What have  _you_ ever done for me?”

Mycroft had been home alone, sitting on said sofa, when Moriarty waltzed in through the front door and took a seat beside him casual as anything.

They chatted about the movie Mycroft had playing; an old favorite of Mycroft’s but one Moriarty had never seen.

It didn’t help that he missed the first half of the movie, perhaps, where the film established what a heart-wrenchingly sweet relationship the two leads had. Because throughout the viewing, Moriarty kept making up increasingly outlandish theories of how the movie would end.

“And then he elopes with the butler, they live happily ever after in the Caymans,” Moriarty says.

“Back then, the Cayman Islands were hardly the cushy destination it is today,” Mycroft replies with a snort. “Try again.”

“Okay, she discovers that she doesn’t love him for him, for his money, or even for his body. What she really loved was the way the moon would reflect into his eyes, and now that she knows that’s what really turns her on, she won’t stop until she’s the first woman on the moon. Look, see, shot of the sky again. She’s going to become an astronaut,” Moriarty says, and Mycroft tries really hard not to laugh.

It goes on for a while, and then during a particular lull (there is a musical number in the film, and Moriarty had seemed particularly captivated), Mycroft says out of nowhere:

“You didn’t drool on the couch last time did you?”

Moriarty barely glances at him, at first. Then after a long silence, he sees Mycroft is serious.

Then suddenly, Moriarty looks livid.

There is yelling and arm waving. He makes a big show of stomping to the bathroom and slamming the door shut and letting the water run at full force for a few moments.

Then he yells at the door, “IF YOU LIKE THE SOFA SO MUCH, YOU CAN SLEEP ON IT TONIGHT. ALONE.”

What.

.

Then there is that time when Mycroft unlocks his door, and is immediately hit with a wall of smoke.

“Shit!” someone curses from deep inside the flat. The fire alarms go off.

It’s Moriarty’s voice, Mycroft realizes.

It’s finally happened, he thinks, he’s lost it and is planning to kill me in an unnecessarily dramatic fashion.

“Moriarty, what have you done?” Mycroft calls out from the front door. It’s half open and he’s standing on the outside. He debates closing the door and leaving, because his suit is getting all smokey, and it’s a greasy sort of smoke and smell.

Curiosity gets the best of him and he waits, door open just a smidge.

“HOW DO YOU TURN THE BLOODY ALARM OFF?” Moriarty yells back at him from—apparently the kitchen.

Mycroft takes out his phone, and he may or may not be muttering ‘I have to do everything around here’ under his breath, as he remotely disables the alarm. Then he stops.

“Are you sure you don’t want the fire brigade in here to help?” he calls toward the kitchen.

“It’s just smoke!” Moriarty practically shrieks. Mycroft very reluctantly disables the alarm.

Then, even more reluctantly, with all the enthusiasm of a snail charging toward a tortoise, he calls back, weakly, hoping maybe he won’t hear, “do you need some help?”

Moriarty appears in the doorway a moment later, looks him up and down, and frowns noticing that he’s taken to hiding behind the door so as to not get the smell in his suit.

Moriarty is wearing an apron over his shirt sleeves, his hair looks a right mess, and there’s even a black, greasy smudge across his right cheek.

Mycroft stares.

Moriarty is also holding a spatula.

“What were you doing in my kitchen…?” he asks very carefully.

“What does it look like I was doing,” Moriarty responds in monotone. It looks like he was burning down the house, is what it looks like. But Mycroft knows better than to say that to someone who’s just tried to burn down your house.

Moriarty squeezes his way through the crack of the door and pushes it shut behind him. Mycroft opens his mouth to protest and Moriarty rolls his eyes.

“Don’t worry, the windows are open, and your bedroom and closets are sealed,” he says. “Don’t have to worry about your sheets or your precious wardrobe.”

Oh, good then.

Except Moriarty looks incredibly annoyed at his optimistic response. He hadn’t even said anything!

Mycroft watches as Moriarty fiddles with the spatula a bit—and why did he bring the spatula out with him? If Mycroft’s being honest he hadn’t even known he owned a spatula.

Wait.

He doesn’t even own  _food_.

“Did you bring over things to cook?” he asks, baffled. Moriarty makes him hold the spatula for that. Then hands him the apron shortly after.

“Come along,” he says in lieu of an answer. “We’ll go to my place, and I’ll have someone send something because I doubt you’re a better cook than I am.”

“Am I going to need to sell this place?” Mycroft asks mournfully, because he really liked the place. He still likes it! Sans smoke and burnt kitchen though.

Moriarty is already tapping away on his phone.

“I figured since you like staying in so much and you won’t go out to dinner with me, I’d just bring dinner to you,” Moriarty replies off-handedly. Then he looks up and turns back to the door, finds it locked, and digs through Mycroft’s pocket for a key— _excuse you, personal space_ —and unlocks it.

“Oh, almost forgot,” is all he says before he disappears back inside. Then he pops back out with his suit jacket and a—

“Is that a Manet??” Mycroft asks, strangled, outraged, partly in awe. At least it’s. Wrapped.

“Yeppp.”


End file.
